Carved in Stone
by TaillessGiraffe
Summary: "But he knew, the torturous moment he lifted himself from the ground and he realized he was alive, and she was alive, and that Hermaeus Mora sounded pleased, that whatever change she had caused, he wouldn't like it."
1. Chapter 1

Written for the Skyrim Kink Meme, now fixed and revised

Prompt

_Okay, so I'm suddenly wanting some Miraak fluff._

_Where a f!dragonborn and him have a child together and he gets stuck watching him/her. And he's being all kind a of adorable towards the baby. Bonus points if he has no idea how to care for a child ^.^_

**Author's note:** I deliberately left the Dragonborn's name a blank so people can somewhat fill it with their own, but- there's still a few headcanons thrown here and there. However I don't consider this canon to Julia's story continuity. It's done for fluff's sake. Hope you like it!

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><p>This was, in no way, how he imagined his life would unfold.<p>

Hardly four years ago he was in Hermaeus Mora's grasp. Secluded to Apocrypha, spending every waking minute of his existence anticipating the moment he would finally be ready - _they all would be ready_ - for his return.

He would make them remember, and by _them_ he wasn't just referring to the sleep deprived people of Solstheim. No. With his recovered and possibly increased power, he could travel further, take the whole land of Tamriel, make his dominion bigger than it ever was in the past.

Vahlok had succeeded only because he wasn't prepared back then. His enthusiasm and over-confidence provided by the knowledge given by Hermaeus Mora had been his defeat, thinking himself invincible and being caught off guard for it. But now the dragonpriest had had a terribly long time to revise every detail, consider every possibility, and with the reign of dragons long-time disappeared and no Jailor to stop him, it was easy and not in the least arrogant to expect no failure.

When he finally returned to Nirn, he would punish the world for forgetting him, and take back what was rightfully his to claim.

He'd become, once again, the master of his own fate, and be free of Hermaeus Mora's strings.

What _exactly_ happened with all of that, he still couldn't figure it out.

Surely he knew, the moment Mora's tentacle retreated and he fell with a ungraceful thud to the ground, that **she** had changed something.

She, whom he had considered a mere entertainment, an annoying fly buzzing in his ear, irritatingly determined, yes, but never a menace to have in mind, no matter what fate had decreed. He knew Hermaeus Mora planned to use her as a tool to get rid of him, luring her with promising deals, just like he had done with the atmoran in the past. He just couldn't understand how Mora, being the daedric prince of knowledge, had chosen such a subject as his new champion.

He couldn't lie, as much as he tried to be cautious, not to be caught with his guard down like last time, he just couldn't find it in himself to worry. It had even amused Miraak that she had made it that far, managing to bend the will of his most loyal servant for her own purposes. She was persistent for an insect, he had to give her that.

However, her presence was still convenient. She wasn't even fit to tie his bootlaces, but the power her soul presented, fed with hundreds of dragons, was something he could indeed find a good use for. It was as if Mora was the web, Miraak the spider, and the last Dragonborn the unsuspecting bug. Besides, what better way to present himself than as the devourer of Alduin's slayer?

He had never expected her to be that damnably good at battle, or to have mastered the Dragon Aspect in such a short amount of time. He truly hadn't planned to consume his last three dragon servants, those weak, treacherous lizards, when he had been close to being once again defeated.

But Hermaeus Mora's betrayal, now that was something that didn't catch him by surprise. He was, after all, a capricious master.

The first Dragonborn couldn't make out what exactly she was yelling at Mora, or what the tricky Daedra hissed in return, what's with the whole having a sickening, dark giant tentacle impaling his very soul, making his body go limb, filling his fogged mind with rage, pain, and betrayal.

But he knew, the torturous moment he lifted himself from the ground and he realized he was alive, and she was alive, and that Hermaeus Mora sounded _pleased_, that whatever change she had caused, he wouldn't like it.


	2. Chapter 2

He was right, for the most part. The deal formed between the meddling woman and the daedric prince forced the first Dragonborn to stay by her side, least he wanted Hermaeus to finish what he started and for his soul to be devoured- _as it should have been_, he often reflected. As part of the deal, he was also stripped of his powers, left with only his inherent strength, physical and mental, and, fortunately Mora had no right to take this, his innate gift for the Thu'um, although he'd have to learn to shout all over again. An easy enough task, of course, but frustrating none the less.

The situation was entirely humiliating. Not only had he failed and been reduced to a pathetic dog, forced by Mora and, he had to admit, his stubborn determination to survive and perhaps find a way out of the damned deal, to follow **her** around, his threats at best empty barks for someone who now had the ability to shout him into Oblivion and back without further consequence than his well deserved hatred. On top of that, his right to choose, his right to walk his own path, **his fate**, was once again ripped away from him. And just when he had been **so close** to reclaim it.

Thinking back of those times, sitting at the wooden table in **her** dining room, hearing the creaking from **her** fireplace, it was even harder to understand how exactly this could have happened.

Cause honestly, Divines be damned, he _hated_ her back then. The way she held back from replying whenever he tried to provoke her ire, as if he was a child throwing a tantrum that ought to be ignored. He _hated _her and her stupid obsession with helping and assisting whoever she encountered in trouble, no matter how menial.

She was _Dragonborn_, someone to be feared and respected, not some ridiculous errand girl. She should be claiming the land of Skyrim for herself, not helping the jarls and their people so she could own a pathetic patch of ground. She should have legions under her command, constructing temples in her name. Instead she wasted her time running around, spending her gold and bruising her hands collecting materials to build a poor excuse of a home for herself.

The atmoran felt his hands twitch, eager to close around her throat until her eyes were void of any life, the first time he noticed her squinting and frowning in front of a word wall. She had already learned the word, he could tell. The chanting and the ancient knowledge pouring from the wall and into her soul could go unnoticed to everybody else, but not to him. A wave of anguish flooded over him when the ancient magic completely ignored his presence. As if he wasn't worthy. So to see her struggling to understand the carvings, muttering to herself what it could possibly mean and going over what few words she knew, and realize she hadn't even _bothered_ to learn the dragon language, that was the ultimate outrage.

And it was that rage and his pride that held him back from even _hinting_ she had to share her knowledge to help him use his Thu'um again.

Instead, by insulting the Dovakiin's lack of interest about her gift , he had finally found the way to make her snap at him, acknowledge him, turning their normally tense and silent travels into a never ending competition to see who could hit the lowest- even if said quarrels normally ended with both of them muted from genuine rage and making the whole way back to the nearest inn in silence.

She might have been stronger in power back then, but they were both at the same level when it came to rattling each other.

The only joy he got out of all of that were the times she forced herself to stay awake, undoubtedly wary of his intentions, were they sleeping in a tavern or out in the wild. He would laugh with content, a half-hearted cackle and a smile that didn't reach his eyes hidden under his mask, when she would ask him, too tired to keep up the nonchalant act and with obvious fatigue in her voice, if he ever planned to sleep.

And she had all the reasons to distrust him. He would often stand by her bedroll, those rare times she lost the battle against slumber, imagining how easy would it be to give up on ever getting rid of Hermaeus' leash and simply slitting her throat to watch with delight as she struggled, and gurgled, and then stopped moving, both their bodies bursting into flames. But then he would feel the fresh wind caressing his skin, hear the noises of the night and its life surrounding them, and look up at the immense canvas that was the sky, mixed whirlwinds of colors and constellations staring down at him, and he would tell himself: _next time_.

Always the next time.


	3. Chapter 3

He hated her with every fiber of his being. So how had it ended up like this.

Sure, not even he could ignore it when their awkward and strange affiliation had started to evolve into something different. It hadn't changed overnight, and maybe that's why they didn't even notice until it was too late.

When travelling on their horses they would still snarl at each other, discuss over everything and anything, but at some point they had started travelling side by side, instead of competing to lead the way. Talking, when the situation required it, and in an unusual calm manner, about where to go next, or what strategy of attack to follow.

When fighting, they now did it side by side, going as far as combining their hits, spinning back to back, lifting and swinging the other around; at first he would stay away, secretly hoping that when the dirt lifted in battle dissipated, he'd be rewarded with the sight of her corpse on top of the mangled bodies from the defeated creatures.

But after their affiliation started to change, the battle would end, and he'd actually search for her. And when he saw her standing, she would look back at him, nod sharply, and they would go on with their journey without a word.

Perhaps it had been all those nights shared by the fire, camping out in the woods. She would suddenly start talking, absent-mindedly, her eyes fixed on the fire while she hugged herself under the furs, lost in a trance. Sharing her thoughts with him, as if he had ever asked.

His silence and lack of comments didn't discourage her, however. She'd simply end her rambling, spend a few minutes in thoughtful silence and then go lay down under the tent, mumbling a lazy goodnight that he never returned. She had at some point decided she would rather sleep and risk getting murdered by her travelling partner than walk around much like a draugr would, arrows missing her targets because she was unable to focus.

He felt shocked when, one of those nights, he found himself listening. He still didn't comment or share any thought of his own, but after her mumbled goodnight, he would spend a good while staring at the fire, mirroring her, reflecting back on everything she had told him. And whenever he realized and snapped back to reality, he reflexively wanted to hate her for it. He honestly wanted to, but he couldn't find it in himself to do it, not in the pure, stainless way he used to back when this ridiculous situation started.

She would tell him about how she had run away from the prophecy for as long as she had been able to, scared out of her mind, the weight of the world put on her shoulders when she was nothing but a stupid young girl with trust issues and a broken past. How she had learned the hard way that there was no running away from it, threats of murder and dragons and the death of innocents always catching up to her wherever she went. And how when she finally had accepted her role and tried to live up to it, every dragon she slayed, every soul she absorbed, kept turning her, piece by piece, into something different, something she struggled against for so many, agonizing years.

And how all she had as a reward after losing and giving so much and finally defeating Alduin was a silly day, named not even after her own name, but after the title forced upon her, and bards singing about her adventures picturing her as a hulky, hairy nord man with a giant war hammer.

Only the people she had personally met, who had either helped her in her journey or served as guidance, knew the truth behind the Dragonborn. However, the great majority had repudiated her, blaming her of becoming corrupted when they ever heard of her past or former connections with certain guilds or brotherhoods - places where she had finally learned to accept her nature, rather than suppressing it - easily forgetting it was because of her self-sacrifice that their lives and souls were intact.

Then she would randomly talk about how she missed her family.

Apparently she had taken under her wing a few orphan kids. Miraak wasn't surprised by that. After seeing her obsessive need to help and aid, he practically saw it coming. She talked about how _something_ always kept her away from them. And maybe the Last thought he didn't catch it, but he was absolutely aware that his presence was that _something_ at the moment.

Just like he knew what she meant to explain with her never ending talking in front of the fire, and he could almost laugh at the idea. This woman meant to say that she, just like him, had only wanted to be able to choose her own fate, rather than having her whole life carved on stone, decided by deities to whom she had never given any permission. He would roll his eyes and quietly snicker to himself when she had finally gone to sleep, leaving him to think about it in solitude, and he tried his best to think of her as a fool for ever trying to point any similarities between them; yet, it was impossible to not see the resemblance, as different as their motives had been. Especially not after her deal with Mora.

And again, he wanted to hate her for it.

He had told himself that he was majorly bothered by those senseless chats by the fire - not at all by the contemplations they had originated - and that he was simply looking to put their time- _his_ time, to better use, the day he borrowed some rolls of paper and charcoal sticks during one of their stops at a local store. Had justified his actions as purely self-indulgent when she asked with curiosity why he had started copying the runes from the word walls and he had curtly replied that she was going to start learning their latent tongue whether she wanted to or not. Telling her he couldn't sit and watch no longer how she grappled with her translations whenever she was done absorbing the words of power.

He had insisted that it was merely a way to stop her from eating his ear's off with her life history when he turned all those long nights by the fire into lessons, spreading the paper rolls open on the ground and using the charcoal to write the translations and explain the way they worked. Classes she attended with interest and dedication, and most importantly, in blessed silence.

But the absurdity of the First teaching the Last how to properly pronounce the dragon tongue still wasn't enough forebonding. No, there had been many other occasions that could explain the sudden change of tone in their interactions. Like that day they were climbing their way through a rather irregular mountain, trying to reach the ancient tomb on the top, and she, clumsy as she was despite her years exploring the cold region, had fallen, with a gasp, her foot failing to land on a rather slippery ledge. It took him less than a second to spin around and stretch his hand down to catch one of her flailing arms by the wrist, grunting when her weight almost made him lose his own grip on the rocky wall.

The younger Dovahkiin had looked up at him, her eyes, the only part visible under her face cover, full of surprise. He thanked whatever Daedra was watching and laughing for wearing a mask, so she wouldn't see the terrible confusion he felt at the moment plastered across his features. He had lifted her up with not a bit of delicacy, commented on her lack of grace perhaps with excessive cruelty, to which she chose not to reply, and then continued their way up, making no further comment about the incident.

He could have left her fall. Let go of her hand.

There had also been that morning, walking down the road to Whiterun. They were once again discussing about something, he couldn't even remember what, when in the middle of his bartering, his stomach had growled so damn _loudly _- it was easy for him to forget his body's new needs of food and sleep after so many years spent in Apocrypha - that she had actually stopped dead in her tracks and looked up at the sky, searching for signs of any dragon flying nearby. When she finally dropped her gaze, realizing the origin of the sound, she had started laughing. At first lightly, her brows furrowed, then louder, with relief, holding her stomach. It was an alien sound in her, after all those months travelling side by side, and he didn't know how to stand up to it. Once again he was thankful for his mask, which hid the deep tone of red of his face. He snarled something at her, feeling betrayed by his own body, which only made her laugh harder.

He kind of snapped, then, much like a kid would, pushing her to the side to walk away. There was an '_oomph!_' and then a _splash!_, and he turned around in time to see her butt deep in a stream running parallel to the path. Her face was a perfect mask of scandalized surprise as she looked down at her soaked furs and then back at him, his hands lightly raised in surprise; and then she broke into laughter again, trying to get up and falling back, which only made her laugh harder and keep failing to get up. She called him a bastard between laughs, but it wasn't the kind of insult they had thrown at each other several times in the past. There was a certain glint to the way she said it, relief mixed with exhaustion, and when he swallowed, trying to keep his composure, he felt that damn lump in his throat.

Something broke inside of him, in that moment. He knew it. Just like he had known the exact instant she had changed his fate, back when he laid on the ground of Mora's realm.

He had helped her up, grunting at her shaking laughter and making sure she didn't get him soaked. Her laughter gradually died down, but that damn smile remained on her face the whole way back.

It was the first time the atmoran had troubles looking directly at her.


	4. Chapter 4

A faint crying upstairs interrupted his thoughts, bringing him back to the present day. He lifted his gaze up from the book he forgot he was reading, staring up at the door leading to the bedroom. He waited for a little while, hoping she would wake up and take care of it. But a minute passed, there were no creaking footsteps, and the crying only rose in intensity. With a resigned grunt, he closed the book and stood up, lazily making his way to the second floor.

It was especially moments like these that he wanted to travel back in time and beat himself to death for his stupidity.

Then again, he couldn't blame himself. He couldn't even blame the Last for it. He doubted any of them saw it coming. Which was pretty much the epitome of their existence, if one stopped to think about it.

Although it had been her, indeed, the one that gave it the final push.

He repeated that to himself whenever they laid down in bed, after another heated session of thrashing, and biting and fighting to conquest the top. As if to excuse himself of what had just happened and what he knew would occur again.

It had taken half a year of that strange, confusing phase in their relationship for them to snap.

He had met a few of her so called friends at that point. Whether she trusted him enough or felt prepared to take him down had he tried anything, he couldn't tell. The meetings would normally happen in small taverns, by the side of some forgotten road. There was once a redguard and a small imperial, their faces half-hidden under hoods and their unusual red and black attires partially showing under their travelling coats. He watched their interactions from another table, normally choosing to stay out of her rendezvous. They seemed rather cheerful to see her, the imperial perhaps way too cheerful for his patience. _Was he prancing?_ And her smile during said meetings was exactly the same she wore that time she fell - _he pushed her_ - to the stream by the side of the road. She truly cared for these people, he would muse to himself, with certain disdain. Cared way too deeply, for someone whose life had been defined by death and bloodshed. Should know better.

That's why, when it happened, her reaction was to be expected. She had received a few letters from a panting courier, just as they were about to leave, a day when the weather had forced them to stay at one of those inns by the road. Some of the letters were running late, since the dovahkiins hadn't really stopped travelling for more than one day and the weather hadn't been any help. She chose to open them later, wanting to make up for the time lost.

It was only that night, when they had already settled up the camp, that she read them. He had noticed it in her expression, her body suddenly going stiff. One of the letters carried bad news, and she wasn't ready for them. But there was no crying, nor any signal of her internal struggle apart from the fact that she didn't 'grant' him with one of her fire-chats, instead choosing to go to sleep early. He couldn't stop himself from peeking a look at the discarded letters. Something about a inheritance, a woman's name he didn't recognize followed by 'death'. He didn't think of it as such a big deal. People lived and people died. Some of them earlier than expected. She should feel lucky, being granted by birthright with an unlimited lifespan, that every dragon soul she claimed kept stretching. So he shrugged it off, leaving her to deal with it however she thought fitting, and went to sleep.

His rest was however cut short, awoken by a rustling sound. The sound of someone nearing their camping site. He stood up, ready to get rid of whoever tried to sneak on them so he could go back to sleep, his body sore from the cold weather that soaked him even through the thick furs.

He didn't expect to see her standing- no, more like swaying from one side to the other, hands strongly gripping her hair back and her cheeks lightly glistening under the moonlight. Her shoulders shook at irregular intervals, and she bit her lower lip hard enough to draw a thin line of blood.

He sighed, lying back down, trying to ignore her.

A futile attempt, that was.

Not even five minutes later he was pushing himself out from under the furs, angrily throwing them aside. He couldn't place what got to him. Why should he care in the slightest and lose precious sleep over the fact she was pathetically wailing herself to shreds for a lesser being, for someone who was probably one of the many that left her behind, an ungrateful rat that had done nothing for her during all those conflicting years.

When she wheeled around, startled, looking at him with a expression darting from shock to disbelief, he realized a little too late that he had probably yelled out loud his thoughts. And she didn't take it well, for she started yelling right back at him things about not knowing a goddamned thing about what he was talking about, about him being nothing but a heartless, selfish son of a bitch- and then abruptly depicting herself as things far worse than she had ever called him. Muttering something about lost time, and being too late, and so forth- he had stopped listening, screaming at her in return, feeling a foreign fire rising right from his very core taking over his reason. At some point she was shoving at him, and he pushed her back, and she started to shout, punching his chest as if he was that fucking letter.

And suddenly her teeth were on his neck, her hands painfully tugging at his hair while the other violently pulled down his robes. And he'll be damned, he'll be damned for that single moment his hands didn't push her away, instead rudely flushing their bodies together, his nails digging through the thin layer of leather covering her lower back, searching for her flesh, wanting to draw blood.

Their mouths didn't touch once, and there were no cried names, no romance, just cussing and cries and a constant struggle to remain on top while they mercilessly crushed each other against the dirty and uncomfortable forest ground.

The following morning hadn't been as awkward as he had expected. She even seemed relieved, rather than embarrassed, as if a giant weight had been lifted from her shoulders. There was still sadness in her features, but at least she had stopped crying like a child. He decided he would be nothing less, and acted natural as they put their clothes back on, gathered their belongings and went back on the road, leaving that night behind.

Regardless of his centuries old wisdom, he was surprised at the lack of _anything_ afterwards. No change of routine, no difference in their interactions. Especially when, thinking of it as an isolated occurrence, hardly two weeks later it happened again.

There was an ancient dragon, they fought, they won, and she was ecstatic. She pushed him against the word wall and they consumed each other on the hard stone floor. Same way as the last time, if not rougher.

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><p>He stopped himself right there, before his thoughts diverged towards the <em>distracting<em> details, focusing on the task at hand. He quietly entered the upstairs bedroom, taking a look first at the bed, the blankets delicately rising and falling in compass with her deep, calm breathing. So she was still asleep. He shook his head, amazed at how she had survived all those years sleeping out in the open if this, _screeching_, it could be called nothing else, didn't wake her up. Being sick was no excuse.

Miraak approached the wooden crib she had built weeks before. The source of all his headaches had somehow managed to get tangled up in the sheets, and was erratically waving his little, grossly short and chubby arms around, that tiny face crumpled and red while he kept crying his lungs out of their throat. Every damned night the same.

The proud dovah had a hard time believing he had started his life like this. Helpless and clumsy and needy of every attention.

He took a deep breath, bending over the crib with a _tks_ and a '_okay, just... how..._' as he clumsily freed those pudgy limbs - _he sometimes worried she over-fed the poor creature, it couldn't be normal, all that fat in such a small being_ - and then nervously slid his hands under the toddler. He knew he had to hold the head with one hand, that much he had listened, but he had no idea what to do with the other. _Damn it._ Hell, he was so small, he could easily lift him in only one of his large hands. He decided to rest the baby's little bottom on his other hand, and then slowly and carefully, feeling like he could break if he added too much pressure, lifted up the small sack of tears and snot. He wished he would just stop those pitiful '_hmmmm_' and '_weeeeh_', or at least stop moving so damn much, he was going to fucking drop him- the atmoran took a deep breath, not to lose his temper, quickly steadying his arms and bringing the child's small form closer to his chest.

He stared down at the crying little bug. It would have been so easy, back then, to simply free himself from the whole thing. Maybe if things had stayed the same. Maybe if all had truly stayed as shameless rutting, to be forgotten the morning after. But things were never easy with her around.

It's all she had ever done since the moment she busted into his life. Put his world upside down, step by step.

But he had been the culprit that time. Never had he internally cursed at himself so much until he had met her. He couldn't help but to reminisce once again, as he searched for a chair to sit down with the child.


	5. Chapter 5

It was during one of their visits to Riften. She needed new weapons and the blacksmith there was an old friend, would let her use his forge and any material she needed. She owned a little house by the lake, as well, and he remembered wondering if she had a property of her own in every damn city.

Miraak could tell something was off with her the moment they stepped in the city, but didn't think too much of it. She rushed through the entire process, the blacksmith watching her with a raised eyebrow as she angrily smashed the hammer against the steaming metal in rapid movements, not even stopping to wipe the sweat before it reached her eyes, so by the end of the process they were irritated and she couldn't stop blinking. It would have been hilarious, had he been in a better mood. He didn't like it when she acted like this. It made him think about impending dangers, about things she knew and didn't share.

Once she was done, about mid-afternoon, she thanked the blacksmith, said her goodbyes and only stopped at the house, covered in dust and stranded books taking over the bedroom floor, to release some dead weight and pick up a few alchemy ingredients. He was thankful there was no food to speak off, the smell would have been unbearable.

He had stayed in complete silence until he realized she planned to leave the city without even grabbing some supplies. They were running short on food, after all. She looked about to snap at him - _for once, without reason_ - but then she made an obvious effort to collect herself and, after taking a fast look at the market area, agreed on getting some fresh fruit and drinks at The Bee and Barb. Now he really was starting to wonder just what she was so scared to encounter. He got his answer as soon as they entered the inn.

She cursed under her breath, spinning around quickly and bumping against him, with such force he almost fell backwards. He had grabbed her by the shoulders, then, asking perhaps too loudly just what on Oblivion was wrong with her.

Then he had heard her name, the real one, not her title, not the mocking nicknames he preferred to use, coming from the other side of the dining in the form of a question. When he had looked down, her face was nearly hiding in his chest, her eyes tightly closed and her lips pursed. She slowly turned around, and Miraak lifted his gaze in time to see a red-headed nord approaching them, his head tilted to the side and his eyes fixed on the Last, as if she was about to disappear at any moment. He dressed in fine clothes, similar to those wore by the people in Solitude, but somehow they just looked wrong on him.

He repeated her name, this time in recognition, followed by a cheerful 'lass' as he opened his arms.

She was frozen in place, stammering something, nothing, and even though he could only see the back of her head from this angle, Miraak could tell, from the tone of her voice, her face would be the same exact face she made when she tried to read word walls.

The nord didn't wait for her to respond, though. He simply grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into an embrace, burying his face in her hair with, from the dragonpriest' point of view, way _too much_ familiarity- his hand on her back way too low for his liking.

She doubted before returning the hug, and when she did she had _clung_ onto him.

The First didn't realize the animalistic growl climbing from his chest up his throat until the nord snapped an eye open and looked directly at him, as if noticing his presence for the first time.

Miraak was at least two heads taller, and that man showed to be entering already middle age -white hair taking over his red mane and wrinkles forming around his mouth, his eyes and his forehead - but he didn't show any sign of feeling intimidated. If anything, he was curious, examining the ancient priest from head to toe with an amused expression.

The last Dovahkiin was certainly shaken as she introduced the two men. The nord, Brynjolf, greeted him, and Miraak simply nodded as any response.

Then Brynjolf invited the both of them to sit down, have a drink, catch up on what had happened those last few years, this last part directed only at her. And of course she had accepted.

They sat down side by side, their knees brushing, talking and laughing; and without any invitation, much like she would do at night by the fire, she started spilling everything that she had been through those last years to the damned redhead. Apparently, from what he could gather, the last Dragonborn and that nord named Brynjolf hadn't parted on good terms. And he wasn't blind to this stuff. It was easy for him to read body language, and it was clear as day that at some point in the past, there had been something between the two of them. Something that allowed the irritating ginger to rest a hand on her knee and squeeze with affection whenever she got to a dark or sad part of her story- the first Dragonborn abruptly stood up from his chair, interrupting their chattering only for a second before he headed to the bar, once again feeling betrayed by his own impulses.

He leaned against a wall next to the door and tried to peel his eyes away from the pair, but everything he did, the way he looked at her, touched her, and her damn smile, that damn shining in her eyes. It was enough to drive him to the edge.

So yes, it had been his fault, indeed, that their relationship took yet another turn. Hours passed until they finally said goodbye with another long hug, and when she came back to his side her eyes were glazed. She apologized for the wait, said they should sleep at her house by the lake that night and then go back on the road. They crossed the wooden bridge to the house and once inside she started to get ready for bed, letting her bags and furs fall to the ground.

He lost control once again, failed to listen to his reasonable, cautious side, telling him to let things stay the way they were. When he had put his arms around her waist, it was already too late to stop. He bit on her shoulder, **hard**, his sharp canines sinking into her tender flesh. It wasn't the first time he had bruised her, of course, but that was because their foreplay basically consisted of that, a fight for dominance, to see who could bite or scratch the hardest. He bit when she scratched, she bit when he scratched.

This was different. He made it different. There was no prior courting.

_He wanted to mark her. _

He felt a hundred years younger and stupider, getting jealous like that. This wasn't supposed to be about ownership. They simply used each other to release steam, the way only another dragon made mortal could do it, and that was it. There was nothing else to it.

Then she hissed, moaning as she leaned back into his body, and he forgot all about logical thinking.

She later slapped his deeply scratched shoulder because of the bite mark, a half-hearted slap he hardly felt. She scolded him, saying he was lucky her leather armor would cover it. But she was smiling even as she complained, her cheeks puffed, her hair a mess and her breasts red-colored from his administrations, and he didn't really believe she felt annoyed by it in the least.

He surprised himself thinking about how no one else would understand the pleasure they both got from that kind of courtship. It was funny, how many similarities they shared with their dragon counterparts, even when it came to mating. It was funnier, he thought with resignation, the things this goddamned woman got him thinking.

It was his fault things had changed. He provoked that the next time they laid together, as she had him straddled by the waist with her strong legs, riding him to reach her climax, she had lifted his face so she could lean in to plant a light kiss on his mouth, his hands on her hips, much like his lips, freezing in place. She had held his stare, then, pressing their foreheads together, and hadn't broken eye contact until they were both spent and tired and panting on each other faces.

It was his fault, too, that time they were camping near Riverwood when, as he laid over her, the faint scar of _his mark_ on her shoulder, he had leaned down to kiss her, just like it was his fault that she welcomed it hungrily, their lips parting and tongues brushing.

He had whispered into her ear, speaking in dovah. How only _he _was worthy of possessing her. How no other mortal could compare to him. And later hoped all those lessons hadn't been enough to fully understand him.

She let him know, one of those rare times they laid side by side, awake after yet another _feud_, that he wasn't the only one feeling apprehensive about where exactly this was taking them. She would ask him, face inches away from his own, if he thought this was all part of _their plan_. Just another paragraph, carved in stone.

_And the First Dragonborn shall meet the Last Dragonborn, and then they will fuck their brains out until only one of them is left standing_

She would laugh at her own joke, making him snort, the ghost of a smile haunting his features.

But he never knew what to respond.

She would joke about Hermaeus Mora watching them and laughing, or some other Daedra rubbing their hands together with a pleased look as everything unfolded as planned. Then again she also joked whenever she had been about to be murdered, or burned alive, or about how she had never held the reins of her own life.

Then she would rub her temple with a lazy hand, her expression far from cheerful.

And when they were back on the road, things went back to the same routine. Keeping their distance, aiding each other in battle and still berating each other when the situation called for it.


	6. Chapter 6

He was pretty sure it was around the, what, tenth time after they had laid together, perhaps. She couldn't comprehend why he kept track of that, but it helped him to situate events in time. It was around that time that she had started, in the period of a few weeks, to jump off her horse, run to the side of the road and disgracefully puke her last two meals.

It didn't take her long to share her suspicions with him. She sat down by him, in front of the fire, and told him she was late, very late. That she normally didn't start crying out of nowhere when shopping for supplies, just like she normally didn't mind the smell of fresh meat, not enough to feel like vomiting.

He let the news pour over him as she calmly explained that, if her suspicions were right, she wanted to keep it. That he didn't need to do anything about it if he didn't want to.

And of course, he had said he wanted nothing to do with it.

She had nodded at that, apparently expecting such an answer. Not letting her emotions on the matter show, she continued talking, telling him that she would need to stop their journey to rest at some point, and that she had an unoccupied, half-built manor, east of Solitude, perfect to be a temporal home.

They spent the following months in that residence, only coming out to buy supplies at Morthal, or for her to sit down at the entrance of the house while he hunted their meal. She was a strong woman, not to mention stubborn, so he knew better than to intervene whenever she showed troubles getting upstairs or bending down. He only helped when her grunting and cursing and ridiculous poses kept distracting him from his books, and even then she still would yell at him to leave her alone, stating she was perfectly capable of doing it.

He never asked about her state, neither made any comment whenever her belly grew in size, to the point there were no clothes that could conceal it and she was forced to lay down in bed, a few women from Morthal voluntarily helping her during the last weeks, despite her complaining.

These women often made it a point to look at him with disgust and disapproval, whenever one of them was downstairs, cooking at the fireplace. He imagined they thought of him as a neglecting bastard. It didn't bother him in the least. They knew next to nothing about his relationship with the Last, and he didn't care enough to change that.

The day of the birth he stayed downstairs. The women ran around with wet clothes and buckets and little red bottles of potion as she kept yelling upstairs, harder and louder than he had ever heard her yell in battle.

Six hours later, there was a long, excruciating shout of pain that made the walls of the manor tremble, a loud '_IT'S HERE, IT'S HERE_' from one of the women and then the unmistakable sound of a baby crying.

He had taken a look, then. Making sure he wasn't noticed. He could see the women circling the bed, sheets soaked and buckets with wet clothes all around them. He couldn't see her, or the baby, but he could hear the last Dragonborn crying, stating between hiccups _how perfect the child was_ and then, after a little pause, asking with desperation for _some goddamned mead, fuck, please_.

He told himself he laughed only because of the expression on the woman's face as she rushed to get a bottle of mead, and then went back to his books.

The women stayed for a while, making sure she recovered well from the birth while looking after the baby. One of them had the courage to come up to him and ask him to at least help with the child until she was feeling better. When he hadn't even acknowledged her, nonchalantly turning the page of the volume, she left with an offended grump.

He had told himself he would leave it to her to look after the creature until she was ready to travel again. He needed to keep working on recovering his lost abilities, on learning to shout once again, with her aid, and staying in that manor for so long with only books and hunting as entertainment was starting to remind him of his stay at Apocrypha.

Yeah, he had said so many things, made himself so many promises, and yet, it always ended right the opposite as intended.

Just like now. She had been sick, but not sick enough to not look after the creature. It was yesterday that she had passed out in front of the fireplace while warming some of her milk for the baby.

He would never admit it, but it had scared him out of his wits, thinking for a second she would fall face first on the fire.

Miraak had then carried her back to bed, while she mumbled incoherencies, and noticed only then the heat she irradiated. He knew it was juvenile to think about it that way, but there was just no winning against this woman. Right after putting her to bed and making her drink some healing potions, the baby had started crying.

And there he was. Feeding with an improvised baby bottle the child he had promised to never get involved with. The newborn had wrapped his minuscule hands around his father's wrist, gasping with content every now and then as he anxiously drank from the bottle. He had no idea about what was the right amount of milk he had to drink, so he could only hope the child would know when to stop before he exploded.

Now, just a day later, as he sat back on the chair by the crib, his petty little body breathing quietly, guarded by Miraak's arm and wide chest, the baby had preferred to grasp onto his clothes, his tiny little fingers clumsily closing around the fabric.

Finally the child had fallen asleep, thank every goddamn Daedra and Divine. His head was throbbing from all the crying he had had to endure in only the last day. The dragonpriest observed him, taking in his undefined features, lightly tanned skin and that little bundle of fair hair growing on top of his round head. He tried to take his small hand off his shirt, thinking of putting him back in the crib, but the baby wrapped that little shaking hand around his finger, and he grunted at the unwanted warmth sensation filling his chest.

He laid back his head, defeated, staring at the ceiling. He didn't know how it had happened, but suddenly this child was in his life, and any thought of revenge, or grudges, or plans of getting away had been put aside, perhaps to revise later? How long had it been since he thought about any of it, anyway?

Now it was all filled with this horrible, burning concern about how helpless and small and vulnerable that child was and how helpless and small and vulnerable it made him feel in return. Not even his disastrous deal with Hermaeus Mora had given him any tip about how to face, _this_.

If this was somehow written to happen, just like she had wondered, then it had to be with Mora's ink. Only that damned mass of tentacles would go this far just to screw him up and make him question his whole reality. Miraak could just imagine the daedric prince laughing out loud at his misery.

As if following that same subject, sources of misery in his life, he landed his eyes on the bed, expecting to see her sound asleep. She was instead looking right back at him, her head tilted to the side and her chin resting on her chest. He noticed her faint smile even in the dark of the room.

'How long have you been awake?' Miraak asked her, careful not to raise his tone, fearful the baby would wake up and start drilling his brain again with those screeches.

'I've been awake... for hours...' she muttered, her voice weak. 'Just, not really here...' Then she chuckled. 'Watching you, though... like ten minutes, maybe...?' she mocked with a tired grin.

He made a fatigued grimace, closing his eyes, and then looked back down at the baby. Their breathing was all that filled the room for a while, until she spoke again. 'You know...'

He lifted his gaze, waiting for her to continue. He noticed, with well hidden alarm, how awfully sick she looked.

'You see, how the baby holds onto your hand...?' she asked, her voice hoarse.

He nodded. Impossible not to notice. He was starting to lose the feeling of said digit.

'They don't even realize they're alive, yet... yet they already know who is their father...'.

He kept a blank expression, although he didn't know how to react to what she was saying. Then she just _had_ to continue.

'I know you still think about...' she took a deep breath, coughed and cleared her throat. 'Ugh... about all that... you know, the... your reign, and the temples, and your revenge...' she mumbled, tiredly waving her hand dismissively. 'But... that kind of recognition...' she opened her hand, pointing at the baby. 'That deep, unconditional adoration... you won't find it anywhere else...'

His unreadable expression didn't stop her from smiling widely, with a knowing nod. 'I should know... I had a father once, myself...'.

He glared at her for a lingering moment before looking back down at the child. Lost deep in thought again.

'Can you put the baby here, with me...?' she asked, lightly patting the middle of the bed, not waiting for any kind of comment from his part.

After a few more seconds of silently gazing at the child, he slowly stood up, carefully carrying the baby to the bed and laying it down by her side. She laid a loving hand on his tiny belly, cuddling closer to the toddler with a content expression.

The first Dragonborn stood there, watching them both, before he carefully sat on the bed and took off his boots, laying back down on the bed with a exhausted groan. If she had any comment on the whole situation, on the fact he was going back on his own words and laying next to his child, his hand touching her forehead to check on her temperature- well, she kept it to herself.

She chose to focus on the sleeping newborn, admiring every detail of his face with amazement. That had come out of her. She had created life, after years of believing all she served for was taking it away from others. She couldn't wait until the rest of kids could see their new sibling. She hoped they wouldn't get jealous or anything like that.

She then lifted the hand resting on the baby's belly to land it on Miraak's cheek. He didn't reject it, simply closing his eyes under the touch. They normally didn't show this kind of affection outside the bed. Or sack. Or ground. Whatever worked. And she liked it that way. Perhaps that was the reason she never found interest in having a relationship. Perhaps it happened just like with any other beast. They had a hard time finding their match outside of their own kind. It could happen, of course. She had met many kinds of couples in her travels. But she guessed she just wasn't one of those few.

It was so cliché, Dovahkiin and Dovahkiin, and she had fought real hard to prevent it from happening. But once it had occurred, it was too late to go back.

She normally avoided voicing out her fears, considering it a call for them to happen. But, blame it on the fever, she couldn't keep it to herself.

'Miraak.'

'Hmrgh...'

She gulped, steadying her voice as best as she could before talking.

'If you ever find a way out of... out of this. If you ever find a way to escape Hermaeus, and... and recover your power, to go on with the plans that I ruined-' she coughed, avoiding his feral, piercing gaze, and rushing to continue. 'I-I don't want you to tell me. To give me a warning, I mean...' she took a deep breath, her throat sore. '... if I have to kill you, I don't want time. I don't want a chance to think it twice.'

She waited what felt like hours, forcing herself to remove her eyes from the baby and to look back at the First with a resolute glare, expecting his usual indifference.

She didn't expect to see him smiling.

An honest smile, perhaps the first she had witnessed. He chuckled to himself, a sound she was more familiar with, enjoying being the disconcerting one for once.

'Have you thought of a name?'

The sudden change of subject caught her by surprise. She tried to read his features, without success.

'No.' she quietly replied, resting her hand on the baby's belly again. She hadn't had time. She had a few in mind, but nothing that convinced her.

'I have one.' he quickly added, staring at the child.

Her heart skipped a beat. She licked her dry lips, knowing it was her turn to ask.

'What did you have in mind...?'

She felt his hand climbing on top of hers, both lightly raising and then going down with the movement of the child's belly.

He inhaled deeply before finally replying.

'Dez.'

Her eyes widened in surprise.

She had heard that word before. Hadn't she?

Yes, of course, she knew that word. So many times had Paarthurnax used it, back when she constantly nagged him with her doubts and her fears and her insecurity as a Dragonborn. And so many times had they gone over it during those awkward classes by the campfire.

But it was the first time the word didn't make her feel nauseous or anxious. Far from that.

She felt the tears rushing down her face and onto the pillow. God, she had cried in the last nine months all she hadn't cried in her whole life and she felt like a baby for it. She couldn't stop the sense of relief from washing over her, so she chose to laugh it off rather than cry her eyes out.

Miraak rolled his eyes at her reaction, lightly patting her hand. 'Would you stop that already? Even the child has a better grasp of his emotions than you do.'

She laughed harder, covering her mouth with her free hand before Miraak had a chance to do it himself, happy to find the baby still sleeping peacefully.

'Oh, shut up, you belittling bastard... this feels as stupid as it looks...' she complained, wiping at her eyes.

'So do you like the name or not?' he asked in a tone that made it clear he was dead tired.

She finished wiping at her eyes, sniffling with a smile and nodding repeatedly.

He hummed in approval, closing his eyes again as to make it clear that she better be happy with that as an answer and to go back to sleep and not wake him up in three years. She caught the hint, snuggling under the blankets, checking on the baby one last time before closing her eyes and drifting back to sleep.

Ten minutes later, Dez woke up crying, those powerful lungs proving potential.

And Miraak, for the first time in his entire, seemingly everlasting life, _whined_.


End file.
